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  ’No,’ he said huskily, lowering his forehead until it was resting against hers. ‘It’s you I’m concerned about, not me.’

  ’Well, don’t be,’ she whispered, guessing he would assume she was using some other form of protection. She stroked his mouth with her finger. ‘Did I—did you—was it all right?’

  His expression was tender. ‘You are joking?’

  Olivia caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I just thought—–’

  ’Liv, I’ve wanted you here, in my bed, for longer than I can remember. And since that morning you practically collapsed on my doorstep I’ve thought of nothing else but you.’ He used his thumbs to massage her temples, as his lips and his tongue caressed her willing mouth. ‘How do you think it feels to know I’m a part of you? I could live forever and never top the magic of this moment.’

  ’Oh, Conor …’

  Her breathless cry was against his lips, and her arms closed convulsively around his neck. She was very much afraid she would never know such happiness again, and the prospect of him leaving her made every second precious.

  The growing awareness of his arousal caused her hold on him to falter. She hadn’t known a man could become aroused again so quickly, and Conor’s eyes, as she pressed him away from her, were faintly rueful.

  ’Yes,’ he said softly, taking one of her quivering hands and drawing it down to where their bodies were joined. ‘Did you honestly think it was over? God, Liv, we could stay here all day and night as well and I’d still want more.’

  Olivia’s eyes were wide and luminous. ‘You—you don’t have to say that,’ she protested, and Conor’s lips twisted.

  ’Oh, yes, I do,’ he averred huskily, pushing her back against the pillows, and the possession of his mouth left her no room for doubts.

  And nothing had prepared her for the way she would feel when Conor began to move inside her. The sensations she felt when his powerful body slid in and out of hers filled her with a spiralling kind of torment. They taught her that what she and Stephen had shared had had no force, no substance, and how could she hope to assuage a hunger that had never been slaked?

  But as Conor cupped her buttocks so that he could penetrate to the very core of her being, the flame he had ignited began to engulf her. His urgent body thrust ever more forcefully into hers, and every straining muscle brought an answering response that was purely physical. Her mind might be torturing her with her lack of experience, but her body knew exactly what it wanted.

  Hardly aware of what she was doing, she clutched Conor’s neck, her nails digging into his flesh, and she dragged his mouth back to hers. Now, her tongue invaded his mouth, sucking his lips, crushing herself against him, so that from breast to thigh there were fused together by the sweat of their bodies.

  ’God, Liv,’ he groaned, ramming himself into her, and the raging fire in her blood melted the final restraints inside her. With a choking sob, she reached the precipice and plunged eagerly over the edge, spilling out into a space so incredibly beautiful that she could feel the hot tears of gratitude running helplessly down her cheeks. Seconds later, Conor joined her, the rushing warmth of his seed sending her into another involuntary convulsion, so that it was some time before either of them was capable of coherent thought …

  Predictably, it was Conor who eventually broke their embrace. Realising he was probably crushing her beneath the weight of his powerful body, he rolled with evident reluctance on to his back, shielding his eyes from the glare outside with a lazy arm.

  Then, expelling his breath on a contented sigh, he rolled on to his side. Propping himself on one elbow, he looked down at her, and it said something for Olivia’s state of mind that she didn’t immediately rush to drag the covers over her.

  ’I love you,’ he said, his green eyes dark and intent. ‘And I want you to divorce Stephen, and marry me.’

  Olivia blinked, and then, when his hand came to rub the treacherous tears from her cheeks, she struggled to summon all the objections that had been so obvious in her before he robbed her of all intelligent thought.

  But lying there, looking up into his soulful gaze, it was difficult to think of anything but the singular delight it would be if he were to make love to her again. Having once tasted heaven, she could quite see why someone would want to taste it again, though in Conor’s case her involvement was probably not essential.

  ’Are you listening to me?’ he demanded now, his hand drifting down over her throat, lingering momentarily at the helpless arousal of her breast, before continuing on to the cluster of dark curls that guarded her womanhood. He bent his head to touch her there, and then, his voice thickening, he added, ‘Don’t tell me you still love him, because I don’t believe you.’

  Olivia felt her legs parting under that deliberate stimulation, and it was a distinct effort to press them together. But, in doing so, she trapped his fingers, and she reached down to remove his hand with scarcely concealed anguish.

  ’No,’ she said, groping for the sheet that was crumpled beneath them. His weight was on it, and she tugged ineffectually. ‘Please!’

  ’Please, what?’ he said, half annoyed by her obvious efforts to dislodge him, and Olivia rolled on to her side away from him.

  ’I—I have to go,’ she said, and with an impatient oath Conor dragged the sheet out from underneath him, and tossed it over her.

  ’If you’re so desperate to hide yourself—here,’ he said, shifting on to his back again. ‘But for God’s sake, Liv, stop kidding yourself that what’s just happened is going to go away.’

  ’It has to,’ she said, in a muffled voice, knowing she should get off the bed, but incapable right then of doing so. ‘Conor, I—I’m not saying that—that I don’t care for you—–’

  ’Oh, thanks!’

  ’—but you and me—we’re no good together.’

  Conor swore. ‘Don’t be stupid!’ His hand reached for her shoulder, turning her on to her back again. He rolled to face her, his eyes dark with a mixture of both passion and anger. ‘After what we’ve just shared, you can still say—–’

  ’It’s not enough,’ insisted Olivia painfully, the words she was trying to say tearing her apart. ‘Conor, what we just had was—was sex; plain and simple. Not something on which to build a lifetime’s commitment; not when there are so many other reasons why we’d fail.’

  Conor scowled. ‘Tell me, then. Tell me these reasons. I’ve told you I care about you, and I’m pretty sure you care about me. That’s not sex talking, Liv. That’s love!’

  The urge to give in, to tell him she agreed with him, that she’d do anything he wanted, as long as they could stay together, was almost unbearable. How could she turn him away? How could she deny what they had undeniably had? Was anything worse than the trauma of never seeing him again? For if she left him now, that was what it meant. She couldn’t do it any other way.

  But the habits of a lifetime were hard to break, and she was simply not able to justify that kind of weakness, even to herself. She had to end it now, before his persistence and her own need undermined her reason. At least she had known how it could be with someone you loved. Some women went through their whole lives without experiencing perfection.

  ’I’m—too old for you,’ she began, knowing what he would say, and prepared for it this time. ‘Conor, you’re young, you’re ambitious, you’ve got your whole life in front of you. I would only hold you back. You know it, and I know it. Besides, I—still have a husband.’ She crossed her fingers on the lie. ‘And he’s not likely to divorce me if he thinks that you’re involved.’

  ’Then I’ll wait,’ said Conor flatly. ‘Sooner or later, he’s got to give in.’

  ’No—–’

  ’Yes.’ He closed his eyes against the denial he could see in her face. ‘Liv, I don’t care how long it takes. I’ve waited eleven years already.’

  Olivia let her breath out rather unevenly. ‘So you say.’

  ’So I know.’ His eyes flicked open. ‘What do I have t
o do to make you believe me? What’s five years more or less in a lifetime?’

  ’It’s the difference between me being thirty-four and nearly forty,’ retorted Olivia harshly. ‘Conor, when you get married, you’ll want children. I don’t even know if I can have any. I—I haven’t had any luck so far. And—and before you ask, I—might have done.’

  Conor’s expression was grim. ‘And if I say that I don’t care whether or not you can perpetuate the Brennan dynasty?’

  Olivia sighed. ‘I care,’ she said steadily. ‘And—and your mother would care, if she were still alive.’

  Conor stared at her for another heart-stopping moment, and she had the feeling that if he touched her now her defences would crumble like the pathetic things they were. But then an expression of bitterness filled his face, and without another word he got up from the bed.

  He paused when he reached the bedroom door, however, turning back to look at her, heartbreakingly appealing in his naked masculinity. ‘My mother would never have stopped us, you know,’ he said, his eyes dark with pain. ‘But if that’s the only excuse you’ve got to offer, then I guess I did get the wrong message.’

  Olivia closed her eyes against the subtle accusation of his words, and when she opened them again he was gone. A few moments later, she heard the sound of water running, and as she dragged herself off the bed she guessed he was taking a shower.

  She wanted to go to him even then. She knew the bathroom door wouldn’t be locked, that he would be hoping, even now, that she would change her mind. All she had to do was open the door, step into the shower cubicle with him, and let the future take care of itself. She could do it. She wasn’t married, even if he still thought she was. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

  But it was the fear of his ultimate rejection that made her turn aside from such temptation. The fear that she would last no longer than Sharon, or any of the other women he had known since he left England ten years ago. And, strangely enough, she knew he could hurt her far more than Stephen had ever done. And she had had too much pain already.

  Besides, she argued, she had her career to consider. She wasn’t like Sharon. She had never allowed any man to come between her and the people she had been trained to defend. In that, she conceded, Stephen had been right. She had had too little time for him. So why should it be any different with Conor? She wasn’t the emotional type.

  Only she was. She was. Standing there, staring at her reflection in the long cheval-mirror, she acknowledged that what had been wrong with her marriage to Stephen was that she simply hadn’t loved him enough. But, until now, she had had nothing to measure it against. Now she had. Crazy as it sounded, she was falling in love with Conor.

  But she couldn’t. As her fingers probed the bruises his lovemaking had left on her body, she knew she had to start thinking with her mind again, instead of her senses. It would be too easy to give in to the insidious attraction he had for her, too easy to forget that she already had one failed marriage behind her, and that she had sworn when she divorced Stephen that she would never get herself into that situation again.

  Of course, that was before she had met Conor again, she admitted, before she had realised that the love she had had for him when they were children could mature into something infinitely more powerful. Which was just another reason why she couldn’t let it go on. If she had been younger, fitter, maybe they would have stood a chance. As it was, she would be fooling herself if she thought this relationship could bring her anything but more heartache. And of a much more devastating kind …

  She suddenly realised that the water had stopped running, and, aware that Conor would come back at any second, she hurriedly scrambled into her clothes. She was buttoning her blouse when he came back into the room, and she averted her eyes as he crossed the room to take clean underwear from the dressing-table drawer.

  ’You could have had a shower, too,’ he observed, and she was shaken by the absence of feeling in his voice. It was as if their relationship had never progressed beyond the point of bare civility, and she turned to look at him with unguarded eyes.

  But then, realising she was in danger of revealing exactly what his attitude meant to her, she groped for her cardigan. ‘I—I’ll have one later,’ she stammered, fumbling her arms into sleeves that were turned inside out. She moved to the window. ‘Um—at least it’s stopped snowing.’

  ’Has it?’ Conor’s tone hadn’t changed, but the contempt in his face was shrivelling. ‘You know, I hadn’t noticed.’

  Olivia bit her lower lip. ‘I—don’t be like this,’ she implored, and for a moment she glimpsed the anguish he was trying so hard to conceal.

  ’I thought this was what you wanted,’ he replied, and her nails dug into her palms as he pulled a navy polo shirt over his head. It was probably the last time she would share such an intimacy with him, and her heart ached at the futility of what she was doing.

  But, ‘Yes. Yes, it is,’ she mumbled, and, even though it was tearing her to pieces, she met his accusing gaze with calm determination. She limped heavily to the door. ‘Will you take me home?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THREE months later, on a perfect day in late spring, Olivia stood beside Stephen’s widowed mother, as his coffin was lowered into the ground. The older woman was crying, stifling her sobs in the handkerchief she had pressed to her face. And, although Olivia was less affected by her surroundings, she, too, could feel the tightness of grief gripping her throat.

  But it was all so unbelievable, she thought. That Stephen should actually be dead! That they should be burying a man who would have only been forty-five on his next birthday. It seemed so unfair.

  Not that his death had been the act of revenge she had at first imagined. When Mrs Perry had rung in tears, begging her to come and comfort her, Olivia had instantly thought of Harry Darcy, and Stephen’s fears when he had come to the inn in Paget. In spite of the pain even thinking of those days evoked in her, she had briefly wondered if Harry had found out about Stephen’s affair with his wife, and carried out his threat.

  But, to her considerable relief, she had discovered that that was not the case. Although it had evidently been difficult for his mother to admit, she had eventually confessed that Stephen had breathed his last in another woman’s arms. A married woman, it was true, but not Karen Darcy. Her son had died, as he had lived, without giving any thought to the consequences of his actions.

  Which was why it was left to Olivia to make all the arrangements for his funeral. Mrs Perry was too distressed to do it for herself, and, until her sister arrived from Manchester, Olivia had borne the whole burden of her tears and recriminations.

  She hadn’t blamed Olivia, exactly. But she had made it known that she considered Olivia was responsible for the divorce. No reasonable woman expected a man to be totally faithful, she said. Which had made Olivia wonder about the kind of life Mrs Perry had led with Stephen’s father. Like his son, Mr Perry had died of a heart attack in middle age.

  In any event, by the day of the funeral Olivia was quite relieved to hand over the reins to Mrs Perry’s sister. She had been glad to help, but it had become something of a strain. Her own life was not without its complications, but it was not something she could confide in Stephen’s mother.

  Harry Darcy approached her as they were leaving the cemetery. As Stephen’s employer, he had naturally attended the service, and his swarthy features were kind and sympathetic.

  ’Well, Olivia,’ he said, ‘this is a tragedy. Particularly as Steve had told me that you and he might be getting back together again. What can I say?’

  Olivia’s gaze flickered over the face of the willowy blonde clinging to Harry’s sleeve. Karen Darcy looked nervous. And why not? thought Olivia drily. Stephen was dead, but Olivia wasn’t, and she must know he had confided in his ex-wife. And, for all his faults, Stephen had paid a high price for his indiscretions. Why should Karen escape scot-free?

  But, with a mental shrug of her shoulders, Olivia accepted H
arry’s condolences without controversy. She neither confirmed nor denied the comment he had made about their relationship, but that didn’t matter. And after all, there was nothing to be gained by hurting Karen now. She only hoped the younger woman had learned her lesson.

  Though, as she watched them walk away together, Olivia somehow doubted it. Now that the burden of guilt had been lifted from her shoulders, there was a definite spring in Karen’s step.

  Lucky Karen, thought Olivia later that afternoon, as she said goodbye to Mrs Perry and her sister, and got behind the wheel of her small saloon to drive home. If only her own problems could be dealt with so carelessly. If only she had someone to solve them for her.

  And it had seemed simple enough when she left Paget. By putting the best part of a hundred miles between her and Conor, she had proved she had the strength to do it. And, with her work, and the friends who hadn’t deserted her after the divorce, she had been determined to forget all about him.

  Of course, the events of that snowy morning had altered her plans. The idea of continuing her holiday had been quickly cast aside. All she had wanted to do was go to ground, preferably in familiar surroundings. Even the thought that Stephen might pester her if she went back home had seemed infinitely preferable to risking seeing Conor again.

  Looking back now, she realised what she had really been doing was running from herself. Her fears of seeing Conor, the urgency she had felt to immerse herself in familiar things, had been her way of blinding herself to the truth. When she had boarded the train to London, the relief she’d felt had been just an illusion. And, like all illusions, it had eventually evaporated.

  The dreams had come first, invading her sleep with images, not of herself and Conor, but of Conor with some other woman. Sometimes it was Sharon, and those images were bad enough. But, later, it was someone else, someone Olivia didn’t know, and they were the worst of all.

  So, she slept badly, and awakened drained of all energy. Her cosy apartment, which had previously been such a welcome haven, began to stifle her. Insidiously, the pain had surfaced, subconsciously at first, and then sharply real. It made a nonsense of the unhappiness she had felt over Stephen’s deception. Her need for Conor was like a living disease, feeding on her flesh.